Champagne Venom (Orlov Bratva, #1)(88)

The waiter approaches with Nikita’s wine. She picks it up off the tray with a flourish and sends him tripping off with another seductive smile.

“That’s my brother,” Nikita says. “Emotionally barren.”

“But he’s not,” I argue. “In fact, I think he feels so much that he tries to protect himself by putting up all these walls. He hides behind the Bratva rulebook like it’s a religion.”

Nikita snorts humorlessly. “So you’ve been acquainted with the rulebook, then?”

“I don’t want to offend you, but I’m not a fan.”

“We have at least one thing in common.”

Our eyes meet, and I can feel the air between us shifting. Softening. We haven’t quite touched on friendship yet, but honesty and comfort are a great first step.

“It sucks to know that the only reason your husband wanted to marry you is because you accidentally got pregnant. If I was in charge of the rules, that antiquated nonsense would be the first to go.”

“He told you that was the only reason?”

I nod. “He wanted me to know that there was no chance of us having a typical marriage. He’s my business partner more than my husband.”

“And you agreed?”

“He told me that I’d have to choose between marrying him or leaving behind my child,” I say sharply.

“It wasn’t much of a choice. I don’t have the resources to fight that kind of ultimatum.”

“I see…”

I can’t read her expression. Suddenly, I worry I’ve said too much. “Um, look, I’m not sure how much of this Misha wants you or your mother to know. So if you could—”

“Don’t worry,” Nikita says, waving a hand and cutting me off at the pass. “I’ll keep your secret.”

We may not be friends, but I believe her. “Thank you.”

Our waiter approaches the table yet again, but this time, his eyes are trained on me. He’s carrying a tray with a single drink on it.

“Sorry to interrupt, but this is for you, ma’am,” he explains to me. “From the gentleman at the bar.”

I blink in surprise. A Campari Orange. It used to be my favorite summer drink.

“For me?” I ask in confusion. Surely he was supposed to send this to Nikita.

But he doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

I glance at Nikita and back at the waiter. I look everywhere except at the bar. I don’t want to give anyone false hope. “You can let the gentleman know I politely decline. I’m not drinking today.”

The waiter nods. “Of course, ma’am.”

When he leaves, Nikita looks almost giddy. “Does that happen often?”

“I wish,” I huff. “Well, before… I would have wished when I wasn’t—No, that has never happened before.”

Nikita is about to respond when the waiter appears again, still holding the single drink. “Ma’am, the gentleman at the bar insists that I give you this drink. There is a note, as well.”

“I really can’t accept the drink. I—”

The waiter offers me the note. It’s only a single line, so I read it before I even mean to.

I’m sorry, my sweet Paige. I have a lot of explaining to do. Please give me a chance.

I recognize the handwriting instantly.

My gaze snaps to the bar, and there he is. His height is accentuated by the tall bar stool he’s perched on, his body angled in my direction, that shaggy head of hair looking so jarringly wrong and out of place here.

He smiles nervously. My stomach bottoms out.

“Oh God,” I whisper. “Anthony.”





65

PAIGE

“Who’s Anthony?” Nikita asks.

I forgot she was here. For a moment, I forgot I was here. So I don’t have the bandwidth to consider whether I should lie. I couldn’t even think of a believable lie if I wanted to.

“He is my ex-husband,” I breathe.

“You’ve been married before?” she asks sharply.

“Actually… no. Not really.”

Whatever ease settled between us evaporates in a second. She frowns. “You weren’t really married to another man before you weren’t really married to my brother?”

She doesn’t need to spell it out for me to understand where her thinking is headed.

“I thought we were married, but it turned out it wasn’t legally binding. I didn’t realize that until after he had drained out my bank accounts and disappeared on me.”

“Shit,” she says flatly. Her voice lacks the sympathy most people feel when they hear my story.

Instead, Nikita’s eyes narrow. “And how long after having your bank account drained did you meet my brother?”

Again, there’s no need to read between the lines. Nikita is making it obvious she thinks she understands my motives.

But Anthony’s attention on me is a physical weight I can’t shake. I can taste his desperation to talk to me, and I can’t focus on navigating the labyrinth of Nikita’s skepticism.

“Not long,” I admit. I’ll figure out how this piece of information will factor into her opinion of me later. “Will you excuse me for just a moment?”